Die Alone
by Kuruk
Summary: Flora tells three stories on Christmas Eve - one that makes her happy, another that makes her sad, and one she never expected. Secret Santa gift for HmGirly!


_Ho ho h__o! :D_

_Why is Kuruk so merry, you ask? Why, it's because he's someone's Secret Santa! And who is my Santee (lol, I invented that word)? Why, it's _**HmGirly**_!_

_Merry Christmas, Girly, and I do hope that you like my oneshot! You will find that it fulfills a few of the criteria you asked for on the wishlist, but I will not list these criteria as I will ruin the story before you even unwrap it! :)_

_Hope everyone likes it too! :D_

* * *

_**Die Alone **_

Have you ever watched a river flow during sunset? For me, this has always been a sort of therapy-- just watching the water flow from somewhere far, far away just to empty into the sea. You know, somehow, that very same water will find its way back to that very same sea-- like a prodigal son that has visited the entire world. As if that water has finally found its way home.

I like thinking of it that way, anyway.

I suppose that this has always been a comfort to me, this big thinking, I mean. Mother would always tell me I had thoughts fitting of a lonesome girl, and even though it offended me when I was younger, I can look back at that now and agree with her.

A loner. You see, that's what I am, and have been since I could remember. I was the girl who read during recess in grade school, the girl that didn't go to prom because she wanted to study instead. That kind of girl, the one you always overlook.

Carter used to say that he couldn't think of a time when we weren't together. Or rather when _I_ wasn't with _him_. When we met I was that mousy, shy student in his anthropology class at Oxford, and he was the oh-so-passionate, renowned professor. I was a mystery to him, and Carter was never someone to ruin a good fantasy by asking you to fill in the details...

He loved keeping the mysterious unknown, just because he hated when his dreams shattered all around him.

I'm sure that if he would've known that I was the lonely, well-read daughter of a single mother and an absent father who made it to Oxford by maintaining perfect marks he would've lost interest. He would have much preferred me to be the wayward daughter of a multi-billionaire who took up anthropology on a whim.

He did have a love for the romantic, that Carter.

Anyway, that class was how I met him. He was a famous anthropologist, credited with finding the fossilized remains of a previously unknown species. It was for that and that alone that he held that position, since he couldn't teach well at all. His lectures were vague and his exams incredibly detailed, so many a student failed his classes, sending their scholarships to ruin and their tempers flaring.

Ultimately, he was a divorcing, mediocre professor who had made that find by sheer luck alone. His wife took him for all his worth, and like most middle-aged men that just had everything they had ever known turn foreign before them, he was going through a major crisis.

–...--

"Professor?" I called, a bit of concern in my voice as I looked at the upheaval in his office.

Carter had always been a meticulous man, though a forgetful one. While he kept everything organized, he would mix up 'F's with 'A's and graded papers with faculty announcements. As such, his office always had the appearance of being clean, though it was anything but.

That day, however, the whole thing was in disarray.

Papers strewn all over his desk and floor, books falling from the bookshelves, his diplomas and commendations crooked on the wall. What I will never forget, however, is the way he looked. Wild-eyed and messy, his hair tousled and spectacles cracked.

Never had I seen him looking so unseemly.

His eyes found me after a few moments, and after they blinked a couple of times, recognition dawned in them. "Ah, Flora," he said, voice fervent and with a tinge of obsession in it, "What brings you here so early?"

I had wanted to discuss my final paper-- a paper I had slaved over since he had informed us that we would have to have ready by the end of the course. He had given me a failing grade on it, and as I had learned since the first time I turned in an assignment, these failings were often mistakes, as he often mistook me for another student.

After seeing him so shaken, though, I had no desire to bring the discrepancy to his attention. Instead, I stayed quiet, watching him as one would watch a show at the circus-- intrigued yet frightened at the unfamiliarity of the phenomenon taking place before them.

It turned out he didn't need an answer, as he continued speaking anyway. "Flora, Flora," he said, scratching the stubble on his chin, "You are definitely brilliant, yes, the most brilliant student I've ever had the honor of teaching..."

Though he said that as if unsure, eyes darting around the room so that they resembled those of an asylum patient, these words affected me, making me blush and look away. "Well... t-thank you, Professor..." I murmured in response.

He, however, wasn't listening, as he was haphazardly pushing all the contents of his desk into a cardboard box.

"Professor, where are you going?" I asked as he seemed to consider whether or not to put his diploma in the box. Deciding against it, he moved on to the contents of his bookshelf.

"Away, my dear," he answered, "I've just heard the news of a promising site where the remains of an unknown civilization were just found. Quite promising, if I do say so myself..."

"Oh," was all I said.

And then he began to weep.

After living for years with the man, I've seen him do everything intimate, but crying was a rare occurrence. He prided himself on his endurance-- the patience he had honed when he gave his life to a dig and got no results. He was a strong man, and even though I knew he cried, he often did this in private. Even so, he was still embarrassed by it.

So when I saw this man crying, I knew that he wouldn't be okay alone. Instead of trying to talk him out of it or excusing myself awkwardly-- things that I'm sure anyone else would've done in my position-- I made my way to the bookshelf, picked up a thick volume of 'Proper Treatment of Fossilized Samples' and said, "Shall we take this with us, then?"

–...--

I do apologize if the story seems a bit disjointed.

When I lived it, everything seemed hazy and unreal. I was, after all, at a major turning point in my life. Prior to stumbling in on him in that office, I had been a young woman with a promising career before her, and nothing else. Then, suddenly, I had given all that away, and I was by the side of a perhaps crazed stranger on my way to a new life.

I suppose that you'll give me a strange look when I say that this is my happiest memory of Carter.

He wasn't in a sane state of mind at the time, nor was I, for that matter, but I suppose that the moment when his eyes appraised me in the same manner that he had those diplomas and shone with acceptance, my heart soared.

Yes, I'll take her, those eyes had said, and the fact that I was wanted and needed, well, my loner's heart loved that previously unknown feeling.

Ah, well, I started with a happy story. Now I'll continue with a sad one, I suppose.

–...--

Life in Forget-Me-Not-Valley was dull in a peaceful way. The type where there's nothing pressing to do, so you're more often than not free to do whatever you please. I spent most of my time reading under majestic trees, by that wondrous waterfall, or listening to the music coming from the mansion on the hill, or the Blue Bar. Most of the time I just thought on my life, and that's how I matured from a young woman into a woman-- thinking on my life and on others and learning from them.

And my work? Well, it turned out that the dig site Carter had heard about had turned out to be a bust. I suppose it was because he didn't put much effort into trying. He pitched up a tent, told me this would be our life's work, and we started digging. Yes, we discovered a few artifacts-- bits of pottery, a human skull-- but he never went beyond that. We could have, you know. At any time he could've expanded the site. But instead he chose to dig at the same ground again and again, going day in and day out impassioned that we would find something new.

You see now why I had no work to take up my time?

Yes, well, that's how life was in the Valley, for a while. That is until I met Muffy.

People have often told me that Muffy and I are so unalike that we cannot possibly be friends. It's true, you know. While she is bubbly and optimistic, I stick to being pensive and a realist. Ordinarily, women like us would not be friends. We shouldn't be friends, had it not been for her.

The story gets complicated here, so I'll talk about them first.

They were brother and sister-- brunette, chocolate eyed and they shared this zest for life that was all-encompassing. When you passed them on the street and they struck up conversation with you-- even if you were the most antisocial person alive-- you would find yourself confiding in them.

Their names were Jack and Jill, and they took over the old abandoned farm after their estranged father passed away.

Old Terrence, as we called him, was nothing like his children. He was brash and rude, embittered at the world. I had overheard Vesta telling Celia one day that it was like that ever since his wife had left him and taken their children with her.

When he died, no one wept or mourned. Except Takakura, of course, but that's because they were best friends.

In a way the town views that event as the bringer of goodness to the Valley, since it was because the old man had left the farm to his children that Jack and Jill walked into our lives. They brought the Valley prosperity and happiness, but overall, love.

When she walked into our dig site on that lazy afternoon and asked if she could help us dig, I swear, that's what changed everything forever.

That Jill dug and dug relentlessly. "Such a determined young woman," Carter would tell me, "Yes, quite."

Unlike us, though, she found something. A tablet with strange markings on it. When she presented it to Carter, a hopeful look on her face, and he had taken it and begun weeping with joy, a part of me knew things would change.

Jill's finding gave Carter a new reason to live. He began the excavating in earnest, cataloging each find and beginning to decipher the writing. He expanded the site and dug and dug until more and more miraculous finds were found.

Of course, they married, Carter and Jill. Jill was Carter's own heart, his reason to live, his inspiration to continue with his work. It was she that returned that passion to him, and for that I think he would always love her.

After that, on the cold nights that I would sleep alone in our—_my_-- tent, I would lie awake and visualize him standing there before me, as that clumsy oaf of a professor. I ask him the questions I never did, and never would, as it wasn't my place to ask now, not anymore.

"Why did you do all this? Why did you run from your life back then? Why did you take me in? Was it because I was there? Was this all... is this all for Jill?"

I can see him give me that hearty laugh, pat my head patronizingly. "Yes of course, my dear."

I blink back my tears. "Why wasn't it for me?"

–...--

You caught me, didn't you? I gave myself away-- my most shameful secret.

–...--

After Carter left me, it seemed that everyone had forgotten me. One person though, made the effort to come see about me.

Muffy, in those black stilettos, had made her way down the dusty stairs into the site, looking around cautiously as she asked me if I was all alright, here alone.

When someone offers you their hand and you're all alone, you will almost certainly take their offering...

We became fast friends, and we told each other of our love woes. I of Carter and my dedication to him, all these years, and her of Jill's sibling, Jack.

She was in love with him, she claimed. In love with the way his smile always seemed to be just for her, and the way he remembered her birthday and gave her a beautiful bouquet of flowers, or a sparkling choker.

Muffy may be in love with Jack-- she may need Jack like fish need water and we need air, but he is not hers. Jack needs no one and belongs to everyone, and though Muffy may need him to pick up the broken pieces of her heart and tell her that she is his and that he is hers, he cannot.

I try to keep quiet around her about this, but she is gone now and I can say so.

–...--

Some of you may think that this is the end.

It would seem so. A lonely girl puts her trust and faith in a desperate man, gives up everything to love him in secret then loses him, and remains lonely. You hear this story a lot, of foolish women who live alone and die alone.

I'm not one of them.

This is my last story, and it is the happiest one I know.

–...--

It is winter, and Muffy has invited me to a Christmas party she is throwing at the Blue Bar. "Oh, it's small," she insists. I hope you know, reader, that when a woman like Muffy says something like this, they really mean that they will be inviting everyone in a ten mile radius, which is why I dressed up a little, opting out of the dirty overalls and messy ponytail.

As I had expected, the Bar is filled to the gills, and I squeeze myself in to greet Muffy. Instead, I find Griffin.

"Miss Flora ," Griffin says warmly, a grin on his face, "So glad you could come."

I nod at him and sit at the empty bar stool before him. "You don't have to call me that, Mr. Griffin," I said politely.

He chuckled. "Alright then, but I'll have to make a similar request."

"Who are you?" I ask. It was on a whim that I had asked this question, as I often found myself pondering on these questions lately. Who am I, and other such questions. Answers that went beyond the name and occupation.

I expect Griffin to laugh and tell me that his name is Griffin, and that I know this, but instead he offers me a weary sigh. "An old man," he replies, then as an after thought, "An old man who's alone, I reckon."

"I'm alone as well," I offer, almost as if it were a consolation.

He eyes me strangely. "I see no reason why a young lady like you would be so alone, especially on Christmas Eve."

I eye the glossy surface of the wooden counter idly. "You wouldn't expect someone like Jack to be alone, either though."

Griffin busies himself with mixing a drink, adding this and that as if on a whim. "True, but then again, he enjoys it."

I blink a little, surprised that he could outsmart me so, catch me in my own lie. I am about to say something when he presents me with a glass full of a foaming liquid-- the one he had been mixing moments before. "Drink it, it should suit you."

I do as I am told and delight in the strange taste while Griffin watches me with dark eyes. We pass the night like this-- I tell him my stories while he listens and mixes me drinks, never a judgmental look in his eyes.

It hurts, you know, to tell your stories. Usually, they are close to your heart and exaggerated by your mind-- your own private melodrama. When you tell it out loud they suddenly aren't so secret anymore and the exaggerations are so blatantly obvious that you feel like an idiot for all the time you spent analyzing every insignificant detail.

It's like throwing yourself overboard into water you really know nothing about.

When I finish it is late and everyone is leaving, but Griffin is still looking at me with that same unwavering interest in what I'm saying. I am surprised that he cared enough to listen to a stranger's story-- even as a barkeep, he must get tired of the whining, and Christmas Eve isn't exactly a time to spend hearing such sadness.

However, he did, and when I finish, teary-eyed and with a dull ache in my chest, he surprises me. "You know, I gave up guitar when I came here. Didn't feel right after my band broke up and my girl left me. But that was a long time ago, and I reckon you shouldn't give up what you love just because life gets you down."

Talking to Griffin that night was like jumping overboard, expecting to hit harsh, freezing water, but instead finding that someone was there to catch you after all.

–...--

I have always had a thing for older men.

Whether it be Hugh Laurie or Carter, I have always loved the way an older man has made me feel-- valuable, yet as if I still had so much I had to learn. Things that he could teach me.

Did you know that Griffin hadn't played the guitar for fifteen years? Not since he was twenty-nine and the record company he had signed with broke their contract and swept him under the rug with a small amount of hush money.

He started playing guitar again that Christmas, though, while Muffy and I sipped coffee and watched the snow fall outside. Later, when everything passed me by Muffy would laugh and say that his eyes never left me.

It's true, I could feel his warm look on me, and when I met his eyes, I saw not an appraisal, but a look that spoke both of understanding and acceptance. I learned that this is all the more fulfilling than an acceptance out of necessity, especially when at the end of it all, it leads to love.

–...--

Let me tell you three stories.

The first one is happy, and tells of a lonely young girl and the foolish love she had for a lost man that made her happier than she had ever been. The second one is sad, and tells of how a woman loses the man she loved, and with it, the hope and faith in life.

And the last-- my favorite-- tells of how just when you think you might die alone, you find someone that makes you think that maybe you won't die alone after all.

* * *

_A/N: Okey-dokey. I was hard-pressed to give this story a happy ending since it's Christmas and all, so YES, Flora and Griffin got together! :)_

_I hope everyone loved it! Especially you, Girly! Enjoy your Christmas!_

_Reviews are like finding a boatload of presents under your Christmas tree so pretty please, review!_

_(runs off to party!)_


End file.
